


When You've Walked My Road

by Distracted



Category: Leverage
Genre: Eliot prepares for battle, Episode: s03e15 The Big Bang Job, Gen, Introspective Eliot, Protective Eliot Spencer, Very mild whump mentions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:41:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27949223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Distracted/pseuds/Distracted
Summary: Eliot prepares to face Damien Moreau. He knows what's heading their way and takes the time to stock their medical supplies, because he just can't see how they come out of this without bleeding.Set at the start of the Big Bang Job.
Relationships: Eliot Spencer & Team Leverage
Comments: 6
Kudos: 35





	When You've Walked My Road

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TriaKane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TriaKane/gifts).



> Requested by TriaKane. Not sure this is what you wanted, but it's where my brain went so I hope you enjoy it. 😊

When You've Walked My Road

None of the others have been to this safe house, and if he has his way, it'll stay like that, because it's less safe house and more medic station, with cupboards packed with every supply that they might need. There's a sturdy wooden table that he keeps scrubbed, and five camp beds, because if they ever have to retreat to the place, he's making sure the whole team is there and locking the place down.

He pulls out the big medical bag and dumps it on the table, flipping it open to inspect what's left inside. It's still almost full, missing just a few bandages and dressing packs from their last job, but they're going up against Damien Moreau -Damien _fucking_ Moreau- and while Nate seems blissfully unconcerned about the potential for danger, Eliot can't let himself fall under such illusions. He knows intimately just how dangerous the other man is, and if he can't stop Nate running them up against him, at least he can make sure they're as ready as they can be. Mitigate some of the damage when things go bad, because he honestly can't see how this ends without bloodshed. _God, I hope I can keep them all safe,_ he thinks, and rubs the back of his neck, feeling the tension there. _Let me be the one bloody, if it comes to that._

The thought brings him neatly back to the medical supplies and he grabs an empty tub, pulling everything out before he wipes the inside of the bag with sanitiser spray and spools up his mental checklist of what needs to be inside. Dressings, band aids and bandages are a simple staple, along with tape, and he adds in two more packs than he hopes they'll ever need, following them with wound cream and wipes, because it's an easy first step in avoiding an infection. He pauses, then tucks another tube in, because between him and the minor injuries Parker gets, they go through the stuff with frightening speed sometimes. He drops in a couple of slings and splints, rubbing his wrist in reflex, because he'd picked up a nasty sprain a few jobs ago and a splint would have made the drive home a lot more comfortable.

He knows it surprises people that he knows how to heal as well as how to bust heads, a dichotomy they can't quite reckon, but it makes perfect sense to him. His whole unit had learned basic medical skills, because if the guy next to you is shot in the gut, you don't have time to wait for help. And anyway, in his line of work, knowing how to patch yourself up can be the difference between life and death, because bullet holes and stab wounds tend to attract the wrong kind of attention at an ER.

He flips open the trauma shears, checking they still work and tucks them in, next to a smaller kit that includes single use scalpels and suture packs. On a whim, he adds a couple of disposable tweezers, because Parker had got a nasty metal splinter climbing through a duct on one of their last job and Sophie's _still_ moaning about them using her expensive tweezers to get it out three months later. It makes him smile, just for a second, before the tension in his gut takes over again. Some jobs just feel _wrong_ , and this is one of them, doubly so because of Moreau's involvement. Eliot's no coward, but you don't take down a guy like Moreau; you either put a bullet in his skull, preferably from a distance, or you keep the fuck out of his way.

He pokes his mental checklist and digs through the tub, pulling out a handful of hemostatic dressings and elastic bandages. The items are on the list of things he carries but hopes never to have to use, because uncontrollable bleeding isn't something he can fix in the field and anyway, the damn stuff burns like fuck. There's a neat round scar on his bicep to attest to the fact, and he can still remember the terror of watching his blood pour out of him like water from a tap. He tucks the items in the bag, because if his life had taught him anything, it's that it's better to be over-prepared than under-prepared.

Rain lashes against the windows, and the sky is filled with dark and looming clouds that match Eliot's mood perfectly. He adds a bag of IV supplies, the plastic catheters incongruously cheerful in the dim light. He's pretty sure his arms are still bruised from teaching Sophie and Parker how to place them, but it'll be worth it, if this goes down how he thinks it will. Three bags each of normal saline and Lactated Ringers solution go in next, along with a couple of banana bags. If they need more fluids, they're in hospital territory, and the thought sends a weird little shiver through him. It's not exactly a premonition, but it still reinforces just how bad an idea this job is.

 _Maybe I can get Nate to listen,_ he thinks as he packs the drug case back in the medical bag, adding Zofran as an afterthought, because he knows he'll puke his guts up with a bad enough concussion and going through that _once_ was bad enough that he never wants to do it again. There's a couple of types of broad spectrum antibiotics in there, just in case, too. He knows Nate, knows that now he's got the scent, nothing will stop him, but Nate isn't the only stubborn one on the team and maybe, for once, they can get him to listen to reason. The rest of them have the choice of going along for the ride or getting out of the way, and the thought of leaving Nate to handle Moreau alone makes well-hidden anxiety worm through his gut. He's committed and that means being prepared, so he heaves a sigh and tucks a couple of tourniquets under the webbing on the outside of the bag, where they're easy to get at quickly. If they have any luck left, they won't need them, but anything involving Moreau feels like a curse.

Just the sound of his name makes Eliot's hands feel sticky, coated in drying blood, because God knows he'd shed enough of the stuff in the man's employment. He flips the bag back open and adds in a box of gloves, then walks around the table to drop heavily on the seat there, exhaustion hitting him suddenly. It's well down in the AM and he's been awake the best part of twenty-four hours. It's not the longest he's ever been up, but that doesn't mean he doesn't feel the drag of tired muscles, the dull throb of a headache that's been with him since Nate announced the plan. The safe house is chilly, because he hasn't bothered to kick the furnace on, and he shivers, forcing himself to his feet because the job's not done yet and he wants the bag finished before he sleeps.

Silver foil blankets go in next, along with heat and cold packs. He runs warm, but Parker and Hardison both tend to get cold easily and that's bad if they're also nursing an injury. Shock is no joke and he's run _that_ gauntlet enough times to respect it. He adds burn gel and dressings, just in case, because Parker has no fear of climbing through steam vents that any sane person would avoid. The bag is bulging and he runs through his checklist one more time, satisfied that he's got everything he might need.

A quick glance at his watch tells him that he has three hours to grab some sleep and he heads to the ratty but comfortable couch in the small living area, dropping down onto it with a sigh and bending to unfasten his boots before he swings his jean clad legs up and tugs the knitted throw down over himself. He blinks, yawning, and knows if he wants to function properly in the morning, he needs to sleep, but his mind is buzzing with what if's that he just can't shake. He forces a breath out through his nose and shifts a little, getting more comfortable. Every time he closes his eyes, all he can see is his team, broken and battered and bloody on the floor. After what seems like an eternity, he gives in and reaches under the table next to the couch for the bottle there, lip curling in self-disgust as he downs a good few mouthfuls. It's a crutch, and a crude one at that but any port in a storm and he's facing a big one. The booze takes the sharpness off everything and he settles back down, eyes closing, and finally lets himself rest.


End file.
